


In Service of the King

by Gildaurel



Category: LACKEY Mercedes - Works, Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 21:19:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildaurel/pseuds/Gildaurel
Summary: So basically, this is a sequel to Anointed by typhe, and is vaguely canon-ish, but is mostly just about my random desires to get Vanyel laid. The timeline is off, I'm pretty sure, but eh. It's porn, porn, and more porn that ends fairly abruptly with only some semblance of context--yeah. Fair warning.Thanks to kat also, who first mentioned this pairing.Merry Christmas typhe! You never cease to inspire me.





	In Service of the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [typhe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/typhe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Anointed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318274) by [typhe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/typhe/pseuds/typhe). 



Vanyel bent before Randale, an ironic half-bow; they never could keep up the true sense of the formalities in private. _Not since…_ but now was _not_ the time to let his thoughts fall into dangerous, little-navigated crevices of want and passion. He wasn’t sure why exactly his king had summoned him, but he assumed it was a brief, private send-off, nothing more. _And I think he feels very badly about it all, but I hope he knows I don’t blame him._

They’d thought the war was cooling down; Vanyel had taken out what had to be most of their mage power, and with the forced draft, the Valdemaran troops were more than a match for the Karsite. _But then they hired those goddamned mercenaries who came with their own Outland mages._ So two months after Randale had thought he was bringing Vanyel home for good, he was sending him back out to war.

 _And I barely even got to see Shavri and Jisa._ They’d taken off for a family wedding last month, kissing him a quick goodbye and assuming he’d still be there upon their return. _It’s not Randale’s fault. I’ve told him once, I’ll tell him a thousand times; I’m a tool that he must use. Part of me even likes it, I think…_ He didn’t dwell on that; his self-destructive tendencies had been commented on and refined often enough by Yfandes that his mind drew sharply from such pathways.

“Vanyel, please.” Randale smiled at him, that light, easy curve of his lips that always set his knees to weakening. “There’s no need for courtesies. I invited you here as a friend, not a Herald.” He gestured toward the other seat at the table, pouring him a glass of wine from the pitcher. Vanyel took a sip willingly; who knew how long it could be before he indulged again, and it was good, gods.

“This isn’t the stuff the servants bring.”

“It’s from my uncle’s vineyard. You like it?”

Vanyel shot him a look. “Who wouldn’t?”

That earned him a chuckle. “It does cost a fortune at market.” He paused, drinking liberally from his own glass. “Van, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to send you out there—to risk you again—Havens know I hate hearing about your hurts worst of all.”

“Nothing too serious.”

Randale’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “Really, Van? I haven’t seen the evidence, but I’m sure a demon attack and a lightning strike didn’t exactly leave marks to shrug off.”

 _Do you want to see them?_ He looked at his glass; he’d already drunk half of it, no wonder his thoughts were turning foolish. It was just so smooth, dancing on his tongue, beckoning him to warmth. “Randi, please. I know you need me out there. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. You’ve served your time. And I worry...about what it does to you, seeing all that death. That killing.”

Vanyel sighed. _You’re far too perceptive, dear friend._ “I do what I have to. Besides. The worst part isn’t really being out there; it’s how everyone looks at me when I come back. Like I’m some sort of god—but one they’re petrified of. Like I’m not even a man; just a weapon, a deadly effective one.”

“I never see you that way, Van.” The dead earnestness in Randale’s voice took him aback. “I hope you know—I always see my friend. My…more than,” he added, blushing briefly, looking down, hands toying with the wine stem.

 _Oh, gods. Randi…you can’t do this to me. You have no idea how long it’s been—_ his wants, jumbled and suppressed, murmured their existence in the back blood of his body; he shoved them down, as he had the past year, when he’d starved alone and miserable on the border. He drained his glass, trying to recover, noting that Randale seemed similarly occupied with emptying his; serving them both again, he wondered at the slight trembling of his king’s hands.

He couldn’t help himself; he caught one in both of his and steadied it, their eyes meeting, silver to sun-brown over the table. “Randi—Randi, you don’t owe me anything.” _I don’t need you to touch me out of guilt._

“I’m not sure that’ll ever be true.” Randale paused again, eyes still searching his, knowingly, too knowingly. “But you’re an Empath, Van. Surely you know that’s not what this is about?”

And the primal attraction flaring at the other end shocked him. _Did he call me here because he…wants me?_ The thought burned along his untouched senses, his nerves so long turned to hate and war rather than the softness of sex. He realized he held Randale’s now-still hand between both of his and let out a soft breath. “I didn’t dare to think otherwise.” He hesitated. “Randi…it’s been a very, very long time since I let myself—indulge those sorts of thoughts. With anyone.”

Randale moved his other hand to fit around Vanyel’s, leaning forward as he took another drink. “You can’t forget yourself, Van. You can’t just be that weapon; you need touch. We all do.”

His hands were so very warm, and he drew in a sharp breath. The contact was only enhancing his Empathy; Randale’s want for him was so hotly obvious it hurt. _After all this time?_ They’d sought each other’s company every so often since those first two nights; Shavri was of open mind and often drawn away for Healing missions or King’s Own duties; plus, with her gifts, she could easily listen in to whatever tempted her curious fancy, and they’d had an odd sort of agreement. _Randi was so very intrigued._  But that had been before the war that set fire to all their lives, particularly Vanyel’s; he’d been sent south so often and for so long that he’d only had the chance and freedom for pleasure one short fortnight in the past three years, a fling with a sandy-haired guardsman named Jonne.

It ached to look at Randi’s warm eyes and charmingly handsome face. _You really want_ me _? I’m so worn away from the youth I was…_ but his Gifts didn’t lie, and holy hells. Randale’s desire seared him as his hands tugged him up, nearer, across the table, until their lips met.

The kiss sent him near-senseless— _it_ has _been too long, gods, I’ve no control—_ and he almost didn’t recognize himself, the way he pulled Randi close, deepened the kiss with mouth and tongue, ran his hands down his body to grasp him fully—

And Randale drew back to gasp at him. “You’re forward tonight.”

Vanyel shrugged, the words a nuisance to the pure rage of blood inside him. He pulled at Randale’s breeches, slipping them off with his underclothes, hungry for the sight of that cock that sprung out, fully hard and so very impressive—

 _I want it._ He knew where he wanted it, but they’d never done _that_ , and he didn’t dare suggest it—not to his king, his lord, who was very much lifebonded to somebody else—

So he slid to his knees, this position familiar to them, as much from past moments in the bedchamber to public shows of deference in the audience room, and took that fine, heavy cock into his mouth. Its size precluded his usual grace, but he licked the salty tip with a slight sigh of happiness; there really were few things he loved more in this world than the taste of another man, a beloved friend, and he could feel the shocks of pleasure echoing in his mind. It was all so much, and he had missed this feeling so very badly that he took it into his mouth further than he usually could, so deep, and Randale sighed heavily. “Gods, _Van_ ,” he murmured, biting his lip ever so slightly as Vanyel looked up. “I wish we could--” He broke off, hesitating, but the unsaid so perfectly aligned with what he wanted that he dared to pull off and reply—

“Do you want to?”

Randale’s eyes widened. “You mean…you would?” The thrilled expectation that ran over Van’s mind wasn’t his own, and decided him; he stood abruptly, shedding clothing as he opened the door to the inner chamber as if it belonged to him, not pausing until he lay stark-naked on the royal bed, a Fetched bottle of oil in hand.

“I would,” he returned quietly, voice dead serious, cock throbbingly hard. _Am I? Woud I? I would. For him, anything._ It had been, truly, a very long time since he’d done this. _Not with Jonne…_

Still staring at him, eyes tracing the scars he’d so casually mentioned earlier, Randale threw his shirt to the side. He plucked the bottle out of his hand, shifting his weight uncertainly. “I’ve tried it…with Shavri—she didn’t—she said it hurt.”

Vanyel leaned his head back against the pillow, sighing through the long column of neck, his body aching with the promise of that cock. “I assure you, Randale, I will not mind.”

His king let out a low breath and opened the bottle, pouring oil into his hand and rubbing it slowly along himself, his fingers, brushing them hesitatingly around Vanyel’s entrance before sliding one in, then, two, then three; he felt himself harden further in response, and Randale’s lips quirked. “You do like it.”

Vanyel did not deign to respond, his body’s seeking of friction enough of an answer, and Randale drew back, dripping more oil heedlessly onto his full, too-full length; Vanyel felt the tip enter as a sort of question and closed his eyes.

“Yes. I like it,” and the confession rushed away all these past years of soldiers and commoners alike staring at him with godlike deference, as if he were somehow the man to top all men, as if he were something more than just an ordinary fool of a human. _This_ was what he wanted: someone else to ease a thick, long cock inside him, to thrust it gently, then roughly, to pin him with hands and warm brown eyes to the bed; someone else to tell him when to move, or rather to move on him; yes, oh gods, yes.

 _I…it’s so good, Randi, dear Randi—_ and the other man’s face was enough for him to realize that he certainly was not alone in his madness of feeling. Fully in, Randale’s cock filled him closer to the brink than anyone’s ever had—not better than, no, and he shoved away that thought before it could ruin all else—but certainly more thoroughly, and it ached in the most satisfying way, burning pleasure to his core. _I would do anything for you._

Randale’s expression softened into something quite like love as he looked own at him, thrust rhythmically inside him, his mouth parting into little breaths of pleasure, and he reached up to run his hands along his king’s chest, his back, his sides; Randale wasn’t the most muscled of men— _he has far too much else to worry about--_ but his slim, slightly softened strength satisfied Vanyel’s wandering hands.

“Gods—Van—” Randale’s breath was coming sharply now, in gasps, his cock slipping in and out with a more forceful rhythm—

 _This will hurt in the morning,_ but he didn’t care; it felt so good right now, the right kind of hurt, the kind he craved and he pushed back in time, drew Randale deeply inside of him, wrapped his legs around his back, let himself fall fully into it— _because it could be years before it happens again, and I do love him, I do._ His shields were slipping as his body wandered further into pleasure, and his mind brushed Randale’s—accidentally, but the other man dropped his own flimsy shields smoothly, purposefully, and Vanyel saw a mirrored image of himself, debauched, his cock rock-hard and leaking, his cheeks flushed, his hair strewn about his face that another voice whispered lovingly inside his head was _beautiful, so beautiful—beautiful man, my trusted friend—_

As Randale read his desire and stroked him once, twice, the mingled internal and external sensation was enough to flatter him into ecstasy; a fire that burned away the world and its horrible cares, that reminded him of what good there was. He heard a low moan above him and Felt Randale’s pleasure jolt through him, echoed wonder leaving him limp and sated on the bed.

He reveled in the sheer joy for a moment before drawing his shields slowly back around him, gathering his fallen thoughts and dignity. “Thank you,” he murmured quietly, finding his discarded breeches and drawing them up, pulling his shirt over his body, Randale’s vision of him from earlier still coloring his mind— _thinner and tougher and more scarred, but just as lovely—_

“For what?” Randale’s voice was incredulous as he raised himself from the bed on one arm.

“The thoughts.” Vanyel ran a hand through his hair and favored him with a smile. “I… haven’t felt that comforted in years.”

“Come here.” It was half an order, and he’d always been minded to obey; when Randale kissed him slowly and sweetly, he sank into his arms, letting himself have this last moment—

“Goodbye, Randi,” he murmured as their lips parted.

Randale clasped his hand once, briefly, as he drew away. “Take care of yourself, Vanyel.” And he heard the behind-the-words, the unsaid whispers of his earlier, open thoughts— _I can’t take losing you._

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, drinking in one last vision of Randale nude and sated on the bed, his subtle handsomeness and invariable kindness etching lines of pleasant memory into his mind, which he would draw on more than once during the long months—years—ahead.


End file.
